This ain't a love song
by waywardcherry
Summary: An entire life trying to mask whatever may count as real has long-lasting effects, apparently. Or maybe it's eveything stirred with white wine.


**AN:** This is based on that one episode still of them at the bar and conversation that led to indoor parking garages. I don't know what happens in the episode, this is just me making crazy assumptions.

..

It's the way Santana says 'diva, diva, diva!' and points at half the wedding party and repeats until she's got them all. Or maybe it's the red of Santana's dress reminding her of crimson and how that girl with the Harvard sweater would _not stop staring at her_ at a deli in New York. It could also be no-bullshit look she gets every time she tries to comment on the new guys in glee club and how lean Finn looks—she can't look Santana in the eyes whenever the words tumble out of her lips. An entire life trying to mask whatever may count as _real _has long-lasting effects, apparently.

Or maybe it's eveything stirred with white wine.

It's ironic, really, how it's open bar for minors at their (in her case, former) teacher's wedding. To the _guidance counselor_. She and Santana don't have to answer to them, but a big portion of them do. (Santana thinks it's incredibly sad how no other member of the faculty seems to be witnessing this wedding, it's full of the kids they grew up with. And Quinn agrees. It's a tad heartbreaking, even.) Everyone's got their drinks and their corners and their issues, and the wedding doesn't seem to be happening for some reason.

They'd know more about it if they were actually _inside_ the hotel ballroom right now. They ran into a suspiciously flustered Rachel on the way downstairs and now she's looking at a sequin that fell off her jacket—not _fell_, per se, the brick under her elbow seems to have torn it. It fell to the floor and it's reflecting the flickering lights in the parking garage. The lights are pretty…

There's a hand on her cheek readjusting her head and her vision swims a little, Santana coming in and out of view as she blinks slowly. "We could go upstairs."

"No. I wanna be here."

"Somebody could walk in."

"That's half the fun."

Santana snorts. "You think fun, you hear _Quinn Fabray_. My mistake."

"Don't be a bitch," she bites back. She's being pressed in all the right—wrong, _very_ wrong—places against the wall. She's daring Santana to kiss her, but she only responds by hiking her dress higher and moving her thighs so that Quinn is pinned in such a way that a heavy breath provides friction in—_places_. That fucking bitch. It feels sort of amazing.

It's like a game of chicken, where they both want the same thing but Santana refuses to let go of this notion that making that first move would be "corrupting the baby gay". Which she's not. This is called inebriation elevated to the nth power of boredom. The event doesn't happen, they have wine and very little patience for the outbreak of drama in the main room.

This is killing time. And this time they're _not_ killing in the right way, just looking at each other is wearing her patience thin. She notices Santana rolling her eyes, but tracing the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip—she's gonna break, and this thought sends a rush down her belly that snaps her hips and—_oh god_. There's that friction again and her eyelids flutter. "Oh, fuck this," she hears and there's no time to smirk as her mouth is captured and it's hungry—has Santana been thinking about this the whole time? Quinn thinks she has and yes, that tongue has potential. They don't waste time on their lips and getting acquainted with each other's tastes. It's almost angry. It's exactly the way she likes it.

Santana's long eyelashes sweep against her cheekbones from time to time and it seems heavily calculated because it's always immediately followed by a quick bite. Her face is grabbed by one hand and fingernails dig roughly into her cheeks. "Is this what you wanted, Q? Is it?" There's no physical room for an answer, and no headspace either. The dim light is projected on her and Santana's face is dark, her lips on Quinn's and like hell is she not gonna bite back. She gets a low, throaty moan in response and mutters against Santana's mouth, "If I said no?"

"You'd be lying," and she can feel Santana smirking against the corner of her mouth and descending to her neck. Quinn closes her eyes and leans back against the rough brick wall, tasting what's left of Santana on her tongue. It's what they've been having all day, but a touch more bitter. "Have you been smoking?"

Her shiny cardigan falls to the floor and Santana doesn't even look up from where she's definitely leaving a mark on Quinn's collarbone. "We've been together since we got here, what do you think?" And she sucks wetly and Quinn can feel herself clench where there's no thigh anymore to just descend upon and hope for relief. Her pink dress is bunched up on her waist and her hand slips easily down the front of her underwear. She expects that Santana will stop her, but in a way she's glad she doesn't. Santana steps back just enough to watch Quinn find her own wetness and get some kind of relief, and it's almost a holy experience. Until—"Just couldn't wait, could you?" And that throaty little giggle does things to her that she'd never thought it would. Her fingers work slowly—she's not getting herself off for Santana's enjoyment. Her eyelids part and she sees Santana paying rapt attention to what's happening between her thighs.

"Are you just gonna stand there?"

"You seem to be having fun and frankly, I don't see a problem here."

"Ugh. Will you stop with the baby gay thing? You've kissed me already—" and no, she hasn't stopped her ministrations and it pulls at her focus a bit. "And… I liked it. I want—_more_." It doesn't come out without some struggle.

And it seems like Santana's still thinking about it. "Your first time shouldn't be like this, Q."

"Who says it's my first time?"

That was a thought neither of them was considering. At all. What does Santana think of her, anyway? "Did you—" Yeah, she just can't still her hand anymore, but she slows down her movements (multitasking was always one of her strengths) "Did you think this was just a drunken hook-up?"

"Well, this is—"

"I know, but… I wouldn't just—get my best friend to do this tonight."

This is kind of all wrong, where they're figuring out what the hell they are to each other with two fingers deep inside herself. And then Santana looks at her like that and—"Could we do this later? I'd much rather we finish this."

"Sound so cold, Q."

"Have you even known me to be anything but?" The answer doesn't matter, as the question was muttered against Santana's lips. Her hand gets covered and shoved aside in the span of second and she tries to find purchase in the fabric of Santana's dress. The wall is just a lost cause and now she has deft fingers circling her clit and a mouth hot around her nipple and yeah—life is good right now.

All of a sudden, everything becomes still, even their limbs, and she finds herself pressed firmly against the wall and—_why_ is Santana not moving? She slowly becomes aware of their surroundings and the clacking of heels on the concrete has her holding her breath until the car starts and drives away. It's the fingers Santana had inside her that jolt Quinn back to their reality with a curl and a few more precise moves that make her think she's _definitely_ broken a few nails on the brick this time. "Fuck."

"Now me," Santana sing-songs and god, Quinn just wants to punch her.

"You did _not_ just say that."

"You fucked yourself, I fucked you, _nobody's_ fucking me."

"Why do I even bother—" and she can't finish the thought, as she's being spun and pulled against Santana into the wall. Their mouths collide a little more aggressively, just enough to hurt and feel good, and she slides a hand up Santana's thigh to find bare hips. How did she not notice this before? "You're not wearing any underwear."

"_That's_ why you got into Yale, so smart," Santana laughs into her throat and bites. There's no way she can disguise what actually happened to her neck with how much Santana's marking it all over. Now she wants to make sure Santana doesn't wear those tiny excuses for dresses for at least a month and roughly runs her nails up and down the girl's thighs. It's ridiculous how wet she is, Quinn's fingers accidentally slip on skin and right into Santana's core, causing them to lose their balance for a moment. Santana doesn't look appropriately embarrassed. Instead, she just releases a raspy breath into Quinn's hair.

"There's so many things I could say right now…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, just _do it _already."

Did Santana just _push _her down by the shoulders? _What_—"Wait, wait," Santana whispers, darting her eyes around the garage lot and looking so focused on not getting them caught that now that's _exactly_ what Quinn wants to happen. For her inebriated state, she moves to her knees rather quickly and catches Santana seemingly by surprise when she darts her tongue up for a first taste. Judging by the way she hisses and her hips buck, Santana's counting on Quinn to keep them balanced and steady. And that thought makes her want to laugh right into her. (That would piss Santana off so maginifcently it's hard to hold back.) It's really not that easy to find a spot when she's so damn wet, but if she brings it up…

"You're dripping," and her lips pop around Santana's clit a few times.

She groans and says, "Why do you have to say shit like that? _God_."

Quinn doesn't waste time between words and works Santana up so deftly it feels like payback. (And it's not like she's not enjoying this either. It's win-win.) "And stop—scratching me." It's funny how she wants to convey that she hates it when Quinn can _feel _how much wetter she gets when she digs her nails a little bit harder. It's funny how she thinks she can fool _Quinn_ after all these years. Cute, even. Which is why Quinn takes special pleasure in making her scream so loud it echoes around the garage for a few seconds longer than usual. She's surprised a car alarm doesn't set off. She stays down there, moving her mouth gently through the aftershocks but bursts out laughing when she looks up and sees both of Santana's hands clasped over her own mouth, eyebrows shot up to her hairline and eyes frantically scanning the place again. It's just absolutely hilarious. "You fucking little _bitch_."

"Oh shut up, you enjoyed every second of it," she wheezes out and her knees hurt, but she can't get up just yet. She rests her cheek against Santana's thigh until she can calm herself down, but sees black when her friend's dress tumbles down and she's in the ridiculous position of being trapped under a skirt. "Are you _serious_?"

"Fix your dress, Tubbers," is what she hears and when she looks down, she's basically exposed from her waist up. She readjusts the straps of her dress and finds some strength to pick her jacket off the floor and get up. A little unsteadily, but she's standing. Santana now has this smug look on her face and Quinn think she's about to get an earful (and she can feel the eyeroll coming on) and she just blows on a strand of hair that's covering her face. What she didn't expect was Santana reaching out to fix her hair and putting her askew hairclip back in place. It's kind of sweet and it simmers some of her attitude down. She even gets pulled into a slow kiss that sends her mind back into a happy blank for a few seconds.

"I need another drink," is what she says and Santana rolls her eyes as she grabs her hand.

"We have a _room_. We can order in from there."

"You mean—"

"You need to do that again, hopefully you'll get a rugburn out of it."

And no, she couldn't keep her eyes from rolling a moment longer. "Like hell am I touching you again if you're gonna be like that."

But she doesn't let go. And both she and Santana know how big of a lie that is.


End file.
